Shattered Glass
by St-Jimmy1669
Summary: Songfic. The last few years have taken their toll on House, and now he needs to think things through, bu as far as he can tell, he squandered the silver lining years ago.


A/N: I know the song's originally about drugs, and, though that would have worked, too, I thought it echoed House more as self-harm.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own House (more's the pity) or the song lyrics. The song is 'Hurt' performed by both Nine Inch Nails and Johnny Cash. I don't own them either. it's quicker to say I own nothing. Nothing, I tell you...

_I hurt myself today_

_To see if I still feel_

He grunted involuntarily as he drew the silky silver metal against his raw flesh, but suppressed the feelings. This was pain. This was good. Meant he was still alive… somewhere… somehow…

_I focus on the pain_

_The only thing that's real_

It didn't hurt at all, anyway; not really. Not real pain. Not like his leg. He pushed the point deeper. If it didn't hurt, he obviously wasn't doing it right. The gasp that emanated from him as the pale, smooth membrane burst was one of relief.

_The needle tears a hole_

_That old familiar sting_

He cursed himself silently for having let Cameron take away his only real reprieve. Needles were very inefficient. Still, it was better than nothing.

_Try to kill it all away_

_But I remember everything_

Better than nothing, perhaps. But it wasn't good enough. Increasingly, nothing was good enough. He needed it, more and more. It had been like that with the Vicodin in the beginning, too. But a drugs habit was harder to hide.

_I wear my crown of thorns_

_On my liar's chair_

What good had he ever done anyone? Yeah, everybody lies. They all knew he lied about that. Which meant that some people tell the truth. Yet you can't separate them out. Oh, well. Life's a bitch. It's not as if they've got somewhere to be when they die, anyway.

_Full of broken thoughts_

_I cannot repair_

One thing he'd learnt was that meddling gets you nowhere. People are too complicated: it's best to keep out of their way as much as is physically possible. It worked: Cameron no longer doted on him, did she?

_Beneath the stain of time_

_The feeling disappears_

Eventually, the sediment that accumulates on your life blocks out those things you don't want to remember. Or don't need. He was, at long last, accountable to no-one. People thought they liked him? Oh, how wrong they were. Of course they didn't _like _him.

_You are someone else_

_I am still right here_

Nobody liked him. And why should they? He didn't blame them. If he was able to escape himself, for just a moment, he'd run off, too. Leave that desolate shell of a man behind.

_What have I become_

_My sweetest friend?_

Increasingly, he'd been giving himself a shock when he looked in the mirror. Who was this ghost who stared out at him? No-one he knew; that was for sure. He didn't want to know, them, either.

_Everyone I love _

_Goes away in the end_

What was the use in knowing people? They only leave you. Better never to have loved, definitely. If you love, you can never live.

_And you can have it all_

_My empire of dirt_

His life was constructed around one principle: Everybody lies. Which was a load of crap. So what did he really stand for now?

_I will let you down_

_I will make you hurt_

He had this strange knack of causing pain wherever he went. He'd destroyed Cameron simply by doing nothing. It was too late to turn back the clock now: he'd realised that after the funeral, when they'd all been gathered in relative sobriety in his office, staring at the newest bloodstains as if that would make them disappear.

_If I could start again_

_A million miles away_

What was it he'd said to Wilson, when he'd resigned? If he could do it all again… to which Wilson had replied bluntly 'You'd do the same thing'. And it was true. Because how on Earth could he ever go back and change things? Well. Considering going back in time is physically impossible for the moment, this is only a hypothetical solution anyway. And what good do hypotheses do in real life? There was no hope now. For him; for anybody.

_I would keep myself_

_I would find a way_

As he relaxed against the firm, unforgiving wall, he felt strangely hazy. It was going to be alright now – he knew it was. He watched his life draining out of him with a detached amusement. Ha! Wilson would have some cleaning up to do later, that was for sure.

He was vaguely aware of movement all of a sudden. Someone was wrenching at his arms, and pulling them tight. But it was too late, of course. He laughed, wearily.


End file.
